


Dog Days

by LeFay_Strent



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Giant/Tiny, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, You Have Been Warned, because I really needed another multi-chap fic, but it dies, hella angst, in-depth descriptions of grief, there's a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFay_Strent/pseuds/LeFay_Strent
Summary: “Hey, I need you to look at me so I know you can hear me. Can you do that for me kiddo?”The voice was kind, and patient, and all the things Thomas thought he could ignore. But without much thought, he turned his head a bit to seek out the voice’s owner. A small figure stood there on the carpet, small enough to be mistaken for a doll but moving too much to not be sentient.(Alternatively, in the midst of grieving for his beloved pet, comfort comes to Thomas in a curiously small form.)





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone who knew Thomas knew how much he adored his dog. He’d had the border collie for a couple of years now, treated her like she was his own child, always spoiling her with treats, toys, and belly rubs. It made living alone in his small apartment a lot more bearable, to come home to her happy jumping and demands to be pet.

She took up a lot of attention in his life; that’s why he noticed that lately she seemed less energetic. She slept more, ate less, and her long fur couldn’t hide the weight loss. The day she didn’t get up to greet Thomas at the door when he returned home, he knew there was something deeply wrong.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he told her as he loaded her into the car. She could sense his stress and whimpered.

He almost regretted taking her to the vet. Almost, because even if he could have lived in ignorance longer, it didn’t make the truth go away.

Thomas remembered standing by his beloved pet, stroking a hand down her back absently as the vet spoke to him, voice matter-of-fact. The words passed through him, only a few batting back and forth in his brain like some sick version of ping pong.

“Liver isn’t processing . . . birth defect . . . there’s nothing you could have done.”

He took her home that day and settled her on her pet bed in the living room. He laid down beside her for the longest time, fingers brushing lightly at her ears.

“You’re okay,” he whispered to her. “You’re okay, sweetie.”

They still had a few days. A few days before he needed to . . .

They still had a few days.

* * *

When Thomas came home today, it wasn’t to the sound of paws scampering down the hallway. The apartment was dark, the light from the microwave clock shining like a beacon. Thomas barely had the presence of mind to toss his keys on the breakfast bar. He didn’t turn on any lights or open the blinds. He navigated through the blackened rooms and found himself lying in the floor by the pet bed again, using the cushion as a pillow and letting thoughts rush through his head. 

He thought about rust-colored fur and eyes of calming honey.

He thought about if she had known in the end, if she had hated him for it.

He thought about begging for forgiveness.

But he had no words left.

So he closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t alone.

* * *

Days went by. 

Thomas didn’t try to work. He didn’t try to pretend he was okay.

His friends called. Some stopped by. But when finding him unresponsive, they figured he needed time and left him be.

He spent most of his time laying by the pet bed. It was too much effort to climb the stairs, so he didn’t. He didn’t mind sleeping in the floor.

A blur. Time narrowed down to a blur, and Thomas happily lost himself in it. He forgot to shower. He forgot to eat. He forgot what the point of it all was.

* * *

“Hey there,” a voice broke through the blur. 

Once again, Thomas was curled up on the floor. His eyes were open, but they weren’t comprehending much of anything. He blinked sluggishly, tired no matter how much he’d been sleeping recently.

“Kiddo?”

Or maybe he was half-asleep and couldn’t tell reality from dream anymore. He lived alone. No one should be there. No one . . .

“Hey, I need you to look at me so I know you can hear me. Can you do that for me kiddo?”

The voice was kind, and patient, and all the things Thomas thought he could ignore. But without much thought, he turned his head a bit to seek out the voice’s owner. A small figure stood there on the carpet, small enough to be mistaken for a doll but moving too much to not be sentient. Thomas blinked at him, estimating him to be four inches tall. He’d never met a person so tiny—never thought they existed outside of fairy tales—and for some reason it didn’t bother him at all.

The small man smiled a smile that was friendly, if not a bit strained. His hands were clasped together tightly. “There you go,” he said to Thomas. “I was a bit worried there. You haven’t gotten up in a long time. When’s the last time you’ve had some water?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He thought about answering, but he didn’t know himself. If he really took a moment, he’d probably realize how parched his mouth felt. But it was hard to feel much of anything these days.

The man twiddled his fingers. He glanced around for a minute before daring to take a few steps closer. If Thomas wanted to, he could reach out and pick him up.

"Better yet, when’s the last time you ate anything?” he asked.

It was weird, because more than wondering where the small man came from, Thomas was confused as to why he cared. Why did it matter if he hadn’t eaten anything? Was it really that big a deal?

“Kiddo, you need to eat something,” he said gently.

“Why?” Thomas croaked out, voice cracking roughly on the word. The man jumped a little, not expecting Thomas to answer. Even Thomas didn’t expect himself to answer. It just sort of happened.

His eyes warmed in sympathy. “Thomas . . . you’ll die if you don’t.”

Thomas wondered if this guy had any idea. He wondered if he knew what it was like, to care for something with all your heart, to be responsible for their life and happiness.

To fail them utterly.

“I don’t care,” Thomas said, eyes watering briefly. The ache in his chest spread out to encompass him entirely, and for a second he felt like he couldn’t breathe. And for another second, he didn’t feel like he deserved to.

“Oh honey,” the man fretted, inching closer but unable to do anything. “I know you loved her. I know you tried. But she—”

“She’s gone,” Thomas cut him off, looking him in the eyes. “She’s _gone_.”

And nothing would change that.

No amount of words. No amount of hours spent lying on the floor. No amount of tears he shed.

Nothing.

Thomas curled in on himself, burying his face in the safety of arms. He yearned for the blurriness to come back, to live his days in a haze until the ache didn’t make him hate himself anymore.

He thought the small man had given up. He didn’t hear anything for a long while. But after some time, he felt a tentative touch on his wrist.

“You’re still here,” the voice said. “You’re still here, Thomas. That might not matter to you, but I promise it would matter to her.”

Several minutes passed before Thomas found the strength to look up. The man was gone by then, but beside the pet bed he found a single saltine cracker waiting to be eaten.

Thomas didn’t cry when the vet put down his dog. He didn’t cry when he came home or when he buried her or during the lonely days he spent drifting through the apartment. He didn’t cry in all that time, believing he had forgotten how to.

But somehow, this small act of kindness cracked the walls of grief.

And when they broke, he wailed.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Thomas had gotten up off the floor, but he hadn’t moved very far. He sat on one end of the couch nestled into the arm. He had the tv on, volume low and turning out to not be as effective a distraction as he’d hoped. Nothing interested him, so his eyes strayed away from the screen, staring hollowly at the empty pet bed.

He didn’t know how long he sat there staring, only that it was long enough for Netflix to stop playing his show and ask if he was still watching.

He should get up. He should make dinner, or go change out of the shorts and hoodie he’d been wearing for days. Or he should call one of his friends, maybe his parents even.

Would they understand though? Would he just be a bother?

He didn’t want them to see him this way. He didn’t want anything right now.

“Patton was right. You really are a mess.”

Thomas furrowed his brows and looked over. Down the couch a ways, a tiny man stood on the seat cushion. It was a different man from yesterday, yet they kind of looked similar and both wore glasses. Where did they find glasses that small?

“What?” Thomas asked dumbly.

The man seemed to flinch under Thomas’s gaze. Seeing that Thomas did nothing more than stare at him, he stood taller and cleared his throat. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself at all.”

Thomas couldn’t help but snort. “What, are you here to give me a cracker too?” He’d meant it to come out more bitter and harsh, but couldn’t work past a soft, sad tone.

This one didn’t exude the same gentleness that the first one did. All the same, he seemed to understand the nature of Thomas’s mood, and he went about it carefully. He adjusted his glasses, and for an absurd moment Thomas felt like he was back in class with a teacher who was genuinely concerned that he didn’t understand the material.

“No, I believe that will only further enable you at this time. I am here to offer . . . advice.”

Thomas rested his cheek on a knee, murmuring, “I don’t even know you.” Or what he was or where he came from or if he had gone off the deep end and was imagining tiny people to cope with the loss.

He didn’t come closer like . . . Patton? Was that the other little guy he mentioned earlier? He kept a healthy distance between them, hands held together in a downright lecturing pose.

“My apologies, my name is Logan,” he amended. “I know that this . . . visit is rather sudden, but I thought you could use some assistance during your time of grieving.”

“Do you think it’s stupid?” Thomas blurted.

“. . . stupid? To what are you referring to exactly?”

Thomas looked down at the blanket draped over his legs. He pinched at the material, searching for a thread to give way. “Getting all . . . emotional over my—over a pet.”

For a minute, Logan didn’t say anything. Thomas glanced at him to see him standing there stiffly, expression as though he was wracking his mind on how to articulate what he wanted to convey.

“Emotions aren’t typically my forte,” he said as if in apology. “I’m too pragmatic and find it hard to connect with people. However . . .” Logan raised his head up, meeting Thomas’s gaze firmly. “I do understand the process of grief. Emotions aren’t so irrational, when you understand the reasons behind them. And for you to grieve this deeply? It must mean that your dog was dearly loved.”

Thomas didn’t know what it was with these little people popping up and making him cry, but his eyes immediately welled and his lip trembled. “I couldn’t help her. She died, and I couldn’t help her.”

“You blame yourself.” A statement, not a question.

Thomas sniffed and wiped at his face. “I was supposed to take care of her.”

“And you did, Thomas. You gave her a happy life for as long as you could.”

“But I let her die.”

“Did you contribute to the cause of her sickness?”

“I . . . no, you don’t understand.”

“No, I think I do. I think you are the one who is misinterpreting what or who is to blame.”

“Just go away,” Thomas pleaded. He didn’t want to hear this.

“Not until you’ve taken some form of self-care action. If you do not wish to talk, then I implore you to get something to eat.”

“Why?” he asked, just like he’d done with Patton. Why did either of them care? Why should Thomas care?

“You are stuck in a spiral,” Logan told him, refusing to back down. “You lack the energy to take care of yourself because you haven’t been taking care of yourself. As unmotivated as you feel right now, I encourage you to take care of yourself. You may not want to, but you need to."

“Why?” he asked again, stubborn and hoping that Logan would just give up on him. Instead, the other was just as stubborn.

“Because your mind and body will thank you—metaphorically speaking. Eating a decent meal and bathing will most likely not solve all of your problems, but it is a step in the right direction. Even if all you do is get a few bites or go brush your teeth, it is better than nothing at all.”

Thomas didn’t look at him, He sat there, arms crossed over his knee.

“Thomas?”

He pressed his forehead into his arm. Breaths purposely slow, fists tight.

“Thomas, go get something to eat.”

He bit his lip harshly, hoping to draw blood.

“You can do it, as much as you may tell yourself that you can’t. I will not leave until you get up.”

He wanted to scream.

“Get up and go to the kitchen, Thomas.”

Thomas flung himself off of the couch, throwing the blanket aside. He marched into the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. Much of his perishables were out of date, since he hadn’t been to the store since last week. He spotted a box of pop-tarts and snatched them out, not caring if the cabinet door slammed closed.

He pulled out a packet and opened it, shoving one of the pastries into his mouth, chewing it piece by piece. He got a fourth of the way through the second pastry when a lump formed in his throat and wouldn’t allow a single bite more to go down.

Thomas gripped the edge of the counter. He felt a little dizzy, almost sick. Regardless, he glanced back at the couch to glare wearily at the tiny man standing on the back of it.

“I’m proud of you Thomas,” he said, and Thomas hated how it didn’t sound condescending or sarcastic at all. He truly meant it. “You don’t have to eat any more right now. But if you can, go clean yourself up.”

Thomas squeezed the counter, arms shaking minutely.

“Thomas. Go.”

Logan didn’t need to say anything more. Thomas went.


End file.
